


Drown Me in Your Reign

by chemm80



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2011-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Takes place shortly after episode 6.22, so spoilers through S6. Title from "Wash Me Clean" by K.D. Lang.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Drown Me in Your Reign

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place shortly after episode 6.22, so spoilers through S6. Title from "Wash Me Clean" by K.D. Lang.

Dean jolts awake. Thunder rumbles thickly, close enough to shake the motel’s window panes. He doesn’t think the storm is what woke him, though, and a quick check of the room confirms it. Sam is gone.

He rolls out of bed and scrambles into the first pair of jeans he can lay hands on, jerks the door wide. He breathes a little easier when he sees the Impala still parked in front of the door where he left her. Sam hasn’t driven anywhere, then, so that’s good, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t gone.

Shawnee, Oklahoma, and the rain blows cold against Dean’s face and bare chest, has already soaked through his jeans. The storm that washed them up here—marooned them with tornado warnings squawking ominously from every crackling radio station they could pick up—hasn’t let up at all, seems to be getting worse if anything.

It’s been less than a week since their former friendly angel declared himself Castiel Almighty, or whatever, and in that time multiple tornadoes have wrecked half the South, there’s flooding in the Midwest, and a rash of wildfires out West has scorched hundreds of thousands of acres.

Dean’s not particularly impressed with Cas’ record as Supreme Being so far.

Lightning cracks entirely too close to where Dean’s standing, bathing the parking lot in near daylight for a long second, strobe light flash revealing of a human figure. Dean is in motion before the afterimage fades from his retinas.

Sam is standing in the middle of the parking lot barefoot and bare-chested, apparently wearing nothing but a thin pair of sleep pants, which are wet through and plastered to his legs. His eyes are closed, his face turned up into the sluicing rain, arms held wide like he’s trying to embrace the deluge.

Dean approaches him cautiously. His brother is a dangerous man, especially these days, and Dean has to constantly remind himself not to forget that.

“Sammy?” Dean says, but he’s not sure Sam heard him. The rain is loud and so heavy his ears feel full with the pressure of it—hell, he can barely breathe, the way it’s coming down. He might as well be submerged.

But maybe Sam does hear, or senses Dean at least, because he drops his arms to his sides and opens his eyes. It’s too dark for Dean to really see his expression, get a read on which version of Sam he’s dealing with.

Sam doesn’t look especially upset, considering, and Dean’s not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one, but he steps closer anyway, hands held out in front of him in placation.

“Sammy…whatcha doin’?” Dean asks matter-of-factly, like he’s just come upon Sam reading a  
book, not standing outside in the middle of the night worshiping the mother of all thunderstorms.

“I…it was…I was burning,” Sam says, squinting into the rain, looking confusedly around like he’s only now noticing where he is, and Dean is afraid that’s probably just about right.

“Come on, let’s go in, man. I’m freezing my balls off out here,” Dean says, but he doesn’t raise his voice, and he grasps Sam’s arm carefully. Even though he’s pretty sure Sam has completed his latest detour down Hell-memory lane, Dean doesn’t want to take the chance of setting him off again. Another seizure ( _or worse_ ) and Dean’s going to be the one who ends up in a padded room, rocking in the corner.

Sam is shaking, skin ice cold, and Dean wonders exactly how long he’s been standing out here.

“What? Oh…” Sam says. Then he blinks a few times and focuses on Dean fully for the first time since Dean found him. He pushes his sopping hair back from his face and glances vaguely around the parking lot, like he’s trying to remember what he came out here for.

Dean would rather he didn’t, so he palms the back of Sam’s neck, squeezes gently and urges him toward the room.

Sam gives a brief nod and goes inside without fuss. He starts stripping off his wet pants as soon as Dean closes the door behind them, like it’s any other day, just the back end of a hunt in bad weather or something. He pads into the bathroom naked and turns on the shower.

Dean’s soaked to the skin, too, and he pulls at his jeans, peeling the heavy, waterlogged denim from his legs and tossing them into the corner. They land with a slapping sound.

Thunder grumbles overhead and Dean looks up at the ceiling. _Crazy weather_. He wonders if Cas can see them right now.

Dean swipes a hand across his face and sighs heavily. He doesn’t see that there’s much he can do about Castiel, especially right now, with Sam’s current…condition…which Dean would mostly describe as generally lucid, with a chance of freakout. Sam is certainly not anything close to what Dean would call reliable, much less steady enough to bet their lives on. Not yet.

Dean shivers, naked and damp and tired. He follows Sam into the shower.

Sam is leaning over with his head resting on one forearm, propped against the tiles under the spray, letting the hot water run across his shoulders. Dean slips in behind him, molds himself to Sam’s back. They both shiver at the sudden change in temperature.

“Shit,” Sam mutters without raising his head. “You’re freezing, you asshole.”

“Hmm…wonder whose fault that is,” Dean says into Sam’s skin. He wraps his arms around Sam’s body and hauls him upright, pulls him close. Sam relaxes into his hold, tips his head to one side to give Dean more room to suck wet kisses into his neck, across his shoulder. Dean keeps kissing, biting gently at his wet skin as he runs one hand down Sam’s belly, circles loose fingers around Sam’s half-hard cock.

Sam moans and arches, hardens further in Dean’s hand. Dean closes his eyes, letting himself enjoy the warmth of the water, the feel of Sam’s body, smooth skin and firm ridges of muscle, healthy and tangible and safe in his arms, as he strokes and pulls lazily on Sam’s cock.

Sam grunts at one especially firm squeeze and elbows Dean’s arm to push his hand away from Sam’s dick, turns and gathers Dean up, kissing him hard and dirty, claiming Dean’s mouth with his tongue, sliding his hands down to cup Dean’s ass and pull him in tighter. Dean lets him do it, would… _will_ … do a lot more than that if that’s what Sam needs from him.

Sam kisses him like it’s his job, exploring Dean’s mouth for long minutes, sucking Dean’s lower lip between his, until Dean is breathing hard and mostly warm again. Sam licks deep one last time, makes a little satisfied hum, and then he pulls away, reaches outside the shower curtain and comes back with the small bottle of cheap conditioner from the countertop.

Dean just turns his back and palms the wall with both hands, spreads his legs as far as he can in the narrow tub and waits. He’s panting and turned on and just a little impatient about it, but he can’t help his grin when he hears Sam’s quickly indrawn breath, his muttered dirty curse word. There’s a bit of fumbling with the bottle and then Sam wraps an arm around Dean’s waist, uses the slick fingers of the other hand to work Dean open.

It doesn’t take that long for Dean to be ready, really, and maybe he should feel weird about that, about the fact that they’ve been doing this so often that he’s used to it, but he can’t really be bothered. It makes them both feel good and that’s enough.

 _Oh yeah, more than enough_ , Dean thinks, when Sam sinks balls-deep inside him. Dean groans, pants heavily, arches his back to let Sam in. He’s as open as he’ll ever be like this, hips aching with the stretch of it, chest tight with the reality of what they’re doing, the promises sealed by it, what they are to each other.

Sam bends his knees and rolls his hips, moves inside Dean deliciously slow. His thrusts are shallow by necessity of their position, but he’s making desperate little noises and clutching at Dean’s hip, his shoulder, like he’s trying to work his way in farther, like he wants to climb inside Dean and stay there, hiding, safe.

Sometimes Dean wishes he could, too.

When they’re done, rinsed off and sloppy kisses exchanged, toweled dry, Dean staggers to the bed he got out of just a little over an hour ago and collapses onto it, sex-weak and exhausted. There’s no pretense of Sam using the other bed. He folds himself in beside Dean, lets Dean wrap his arms around him and then Sam sighs deeply. He’s asleep in a less than a minute.

It makes Dean smile against Sam’s shoulder, grateful that such a simple thing as good sex can ease Sam’s mind, even if it’s just for a few hours. That never worked for Dean during those first impossible months back from the Pit. In fact, it had been a while before he could get it up at all, although of course he’ll never tell anyone that. Especially not Sam, whose face and body had made plenty of nightmarish appearances during Dean’s stint in Hell. Apparently angels like Michael and Lucifer don’t have half of Alastair’s creativity when it comes to torture.

Which brings him back to Castiel. Their heaven-spawned Godzilla is never far from Dean’s mind these days, even if he has no idea where he is, or if they’ll ever see him again, or what to do about him if they do. Maybe he’ll listen to reason, or maybe he’ll explode them on the spot next time. They’ll just have to burn that bridge when they come to it.

And Dean’s definitely thinking about doing some burning, or figuring out something to at least hurt the lying son of a bitch some. Castiel may have been the one who brought Sam back from the Cage in the first place, but he’s also the one who let him wander around killing, raping and pillaging, or whatever, for an entire fucking _year_ without a soul. Without Dean.

Half-assed resurrection aside, Dean has a feeling he’s going to have a really tough time forgiving Cas for bringing down Sam’s Hell wall, not that Dean’s trying all that hard to turn the other cheek at the moment. He had started to feel like he and Sam were finally on the same page again, since Sam got his soul back—hunting together, feeling more like brothers than they had since before Dean went to Hell. And if Dean never sees Sam unconscious like that again, locked inside his own head and suffering, it’ll be too soon.

Dean draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to relax enough to sleep. He’s dwelling—fucking _brooding_ \-- and it’s messing with his post-orgasm Zen, damn it.

Then Sam jerks violently, apparently one of those falling off the edge of sleep twitches, and Dean’s arm tightens around him instinctively. He feels a few seconds of unreasonable guilt, like his recalling the sight of Sam in a twitching coma was somehow what caused Sam to startle, like maybe Sam is subconsciously reliving that nightmare, too.

But Sam just yawns and shifts a little in Dean’s arms, mumbles, “I’m okay.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says, and resettles himself, thinks maybe he can sleep now.

It’s all Dean really needs to know anyway.


End file.
